I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.
~ Nicole Lyons
I hope that someday when I am gone, someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks, I would have loved her.
She will blaze through you like a gypsy wildfire. Igniting you soul and dancing in its flames. And when she is gone, the smell of her smoke will be the only thing left to soothe you.
She's an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind.
She is of the strangest beauty and the darkest courage, and when she walks with intent the earth trembles beneath her feet.
Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web, illusions spun from clever minds and bitter hearts.
I have licked the fire and danced in the ashes of every bridge I ever burned. I fear no hell from you.
I kept you so well, buried beneath the darkest shame and stilled with filthy lies. Perhaps I should have dug deeper.
Whatever it is that stirs your soul, listen to that. Everything else is just noise.
I promised to touch your soul. I never said it would be painless.
Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.
She will rise. With a spine of steel and a roar like thunder, she will rise.
I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.
And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices... life.
I hold you in the safest place I keep. Somewhere between memories and scars.
I have never seen battles quite as terrifyingly beautiful as the ones I fight when my mind splinters and races, to swallow me into my own madness, again.
The deepest pain I ever felt was denying my own feelings to make everyone else comfortable.
They say she is too much to handle, but when the moon pulls the tide and the wolves howl her name, blessed are the ones who have been taken by her wild.
If I could claw the words out of the back of my throat and give them, dripping of me, to you, we would talk of sticky hands, and the messes they make.
